A Critic's Memories
by The Bizarre One
Summary: 'Why on Earth you people continue to dine at this establishment is a mystery that may never be solved,' I thought, preparing to put the phrase to paper as the fork approached my tongue. 'As, even with a new head chef, Gusteau's continues to disappoint me with-' The train of thought ended as I chewed the mixture of vegetables." A first person one shot.


**BEHOLD, ONE OF THE FEW THINGS I'LL EVER WRITE THAT DOESN'T INVOLVE ROMANCE**

**What we have here is a short one shot idea I had after a rewatch of the film. It's told entirely in the first person by one of the film's main characters. I won't say whom, because quite frankly it should be obvious who it is if you've seen the movie. If you haven't, go watch it. Seriously, it's Pixar for heaven's sake, it deserves to be seen.**

**Ratatouille belongs to Disney/Pixar, and I claim no ownership of it.**

_'Surely they cannot be serious.'_ I thought to myself as I watched the 'head chef' put the dish they had chosen for me on the table.

I could recall asking the first waiter that tried to serve me to bring some perspective, but this was not what I had in mind when I said that. If I could find any perspective in the dish before me-a ratatouille if I wasn't mistaken-it would be me in mere rags eating this on the side of the street with a plastic fork.

_'At least it's presented nicely.' _I thought to myself. I could see the 'chef' put down the same dish in front of a short man in a long coat at a table near me. He looked as incredulous as I felt about the dish before me.

I sighed in disdain as I picked up my fork, pushing the button on the end of my pen as I did. I was already forming the review in my head as I brought the first, and presumably last, bite to my mouth.

_'Why on Earth you people continue to dine at this establishment is a mystery that may never be solved,' _I thought, preparing to put the phrase to paper as the fork approached my tongue. _'As, even with a new head chef, Gusteau's continues to disappoint me with-'_

The train of thought ended as I chewed the mixture of vegetables. My eyes grew wide as I felt something on my palette I hadn't felt in years. It was oddly...nostalgic.

I could see it now: I was standing at my mother's doorway, sniffling like a small child. That was acceptable for two distinct reasons: I was one at the time, and I had fallen off my bicycle and scraped my knee on the way home.

My mother needed only to take one look at me to figure out what was wrong. Without a word, she smiled and sat me down at the rickety old table in the middle of the house. I sat there for around five minuets when she returned with a bowl of vegetables swimming in some sort of broth.

Now, I had always been a picky eater up to that point (one could say it was a trait that translated well into the food critic world) and while I had no qualms eating greenery, this dish she had set before me was something I had never seen before. It didn't smell or look to unappetizing, but I had learned long ago to not judge food on that basis.

Before I even had a chance to protest, my mother put her hand under my chin and brought my face to look at her's. The tired look in her eyes suggested she had spent all day preparing that dish, and her kind smile gave away the secret ingredient, love. Her face gave me courage in the face of the unknown, and without hesitation I picked up the spoon that had laid in the bowl and took my first bite.

It was unlike I had ever eaten before. I had been taught to savor the food I ate by people I respected, but that once I broke that rule and went through it at break neck speeds. I considered it the second biggest mistake in my life, but it made me forget about the scrape I had endured until my mother came back with some rubbing alchohol and a band aid.

In a way, one could say that was the moment that made me want to become a food critic. I wanted to get into the food industry, and I already knew I couldn't cook, so I had ruled that out years ago, but something inside me clicked that day as my mother applied the bandage to the cut. I knew, if I were to become a critic, I could high light people like her: brilliant, unsung chefs that truly deserved more that what they had.

Over the years, I set out to accomplish that. At school, I found myself jotting in down notes on the food they served every day. When neighbors and friends offered samples of their own cuisine, I often handed out three to four page reviews on how they did. While I was often harsh on them, I had been brought up with high standards, and I liked to think that the improvement in quality of cooking around the area had something to do with me. My mother always had the best meals though.

All this time, I was constantly sending samples to the local newspaper, in hopes that I would be noticed and brought on board to write reviews for restaurant in the near by area. It took seven years, one hundred and twenty-seven rejection letters, and countless notepads worth of paper, but at age eighteen I was hired to do my first review.

The income was minor, and the restaurant around me ranged from mediocre to above average, but my writing style and sharp critiques got me noticed by several bigger names, and soon I was known throughout Paris.

I had become infamous for never giving out perfect rankings, and rarely giving out anything above three stars. I have heard that this pushed many chefs to improve and innovate their styles of cooking the minuet they heard I was coming for a review. I could appreciate their efforts, but in my mind there was only room for one perfect chef in the world at a time, and I had already found her.

Even as my name continued to attract fame, I still made it a point to return home once a month for over four decades. Even at the ripe old age of eighty-one, my mother's food continued to be as awe-inspiring as ever and always reminded me why I chose to become a foodie in the first place. I had tried dozens of times to convince her to let me write about her, but she always refused, saying that at her age she had no need for any fame or recognition.

However, three years ago, I made what I considered to be the biggest mistake of my life: I missed a month. There were many reasons why I failed to return home that month: I had just finished an interview that would be televised on rising chef Auguste Gustave, I lacked the funds to make the trip, and many more that weighed heavily on my head as I made the difficult decision to not return home.

Sometime past midnight, the candlestick phone I kept at my bedside rang profusely. Grogily, I picked up the phone, and brought it to my ear. It was one of my mother's neighbors, a rather jumpy fellow that was kind but often blew things out of proportion.

He was talking incredibly fast, faster than I could comprehend at that hour. I did, however pick up one important phrase that he said at the start of the ramble. I take no shame in saying it rocked me to my core

"Anton, your mom is dead!" He bellowed.

I could feel my world crashing around me, and within mere seconds I was out the door and in my car, making the trip to the hospital my mother had been pronounced dead in.

Obviously I wasn't allowed to see the body, and the staff was certainly increduous when they saw a flustered man clad in pajamas burst through their doors, so I had resigned myself to sitting in the waiting room. Eventually, the neighbor who had called me appeared, and explained everything.

She had passed on peacefully, in her sleep, but what got me was where she was: in one of the old wooden chairs by the door, as if waiting for someone.

It was then he pulled out a plastic bowl, and explained he had found this in her refrigerator. I recognized it as the dish she had put together for me on the day I had fallen off my bike.

I ate the dish then and there. The only complaints I had that night was that it was cold and a little salty, though the latter was probably my fault. I headed home and began to make preparations for the funeral.

However, despite my grief, I still had a job to do tomorrow. I had been invited to a restaurant personally by the head chef so I could sample his food. He was confident I would grace him with my first five-star review, as dozens of other critics already had.

In reality, the food was not that bad, if a bit uninspired, but the timing of the tasting was absolutely atrocious and the meal turned to ashes in my mouth. I did grace him with a first for me though: my first one star review.

A week later, I learned the news that Auguste Gustave was dead.

So, here I sat, in the same restaurant that attempted to amaze me years earlier and failed. My pen had long since fallen to the floor, my body in shock over what had just touched my pallet, but in a good way. It was if they had plucked my mother herself from the heavens to make one last dish.

I glanced down at the ratatouille again, and soon the entire restaurant had faded around me. I wasn't in Gustave's, I was at home, staring down at the vegetable dish my mother had prepared for me so many years ago. I glanced up, and there she was, smiling down upon me.

"Eat it up Anton," She said, putting her hand on my shoulder "you don't want it to get cold, do you?"

I was never a man to deny his mother.

One month had elapsed since that faithful night in Gustave's, where I had discovered that the heavens had decided the world needed another perfect chef. I now sat at a table at a different restaurants, retired from my job as a critic after giving out my first and last five-star review, dining at an establishment I was largely responsible for.

The rest of that night had been a bit of a blur to me. The fact the chef was a rat of all things, and one who had the grace to cook me another ratatouille right before my very eyes, it had put me in a state of shock for the rest of the night. I'm still not entirely sure how I got back to my apartment.

Gustave's had been closed the next morning, and I had lost all my reputation as a foodie. As soon as I got word however, I took what money I had put aside all these years in hopes of retirement and funded a new restaurant for the extraordinary chef that had prepared the meal that night. Considering the line that went outside the building, I believe it was a wise investment.

All I had asked in return, other than a cut of the profit of course, was a table once a day in the middle of the restaurant. Here I sat, a washed up foodie, eating a peasant's dish made by a rat, and knowing I would be unable to write another review for the rest of my days.

One bite of the ratatouille before me, and I couldn't be happier.

**That's all he wrote ladies and gentlemen, and this means I have completed my first story on FF. Net...Yes I know it's just a one-shot, but this is big for me. Anyway, leave a review if you enjoyed it, and if you think I could improve my style in any way, shape or form let me know.**

**-Not actually big on French food, Biz**


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